


An Accursed Bloom

by Mairyn



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Consensual Sex, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Making Out, Sex Pollen, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 11:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30054432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mairyn/pseuds/Mairyn
Summary: Granson and Nerienne are steadfastly ignoring the desire building between them, fearful of the difficulties admitting their feelings might cause. The pixies give them a gentle shove in the right direction.
Relationships: Granson/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	An Accursed Bloom

“Ye, Gods!” bemoaned Sul Uin, flapping their wings impatiently as they watched the hume and elf smiling fondly at each other over a campfire from afar. “Have you ever witnessed a courtship so keen on self-denial?”

A cool breeze blew across Il Mheg. The skies were clear and the stars shone beautifully overhead, the night still a fresh miracle in the wake of the Warrior of Darkness’s triumph. The bounty hunters had made camp in the midst of the flower fields, the campfire dimly illuminating them both in a ring of gold. No atmosphere had ever been more rife for romance. And yet here the fools were, pining and refusing to admit their desires. A tragedy, it was.

“‘Tis a pity,” Oul Sigun agreed, and shook their head. It was the third time these folk had traveled together through Il Mheg, making eyes at each other whenever one had their back turned. Oft had the fae let them be, for they only came to slay the beasts that harried fae and man alike. But the pixies had never spied on a pair so unable to voice their feelings. “Surely we can’t simply leave them to their own devices?”

“Oh nay,” Sul Uin agreed, already gleeful with the idea of the mischief they might cause. “‘Tis our sacred duty to do something about this!”

“Sick a beastie on them perhaps? It has to be a mean one, mind you,” Oul Sigun suggested. “Heroic rescues have been known to leave men in an amorous way.”

“That’s the Warrior of Darkness, you fool!” Sul Uin chastised. “One arrow from her bow and whatever you send is like to topple to the ground dead before anyone can do any rescuing at all!”

Oul Sigun pouted for a moment, folding their slender arms across their chest. “What, then?”

“A lovers’ bud,” Sul Uin said, a wide grin spreading across their face. The bloom’s aroma had lost even the strongest creatures to their desires with but a single whiff. “Just the trick to get the passions running in the right direction.”

“Ah, of course!” Oul Sigun marveled. “Try though they might to resist temptation, this will make it ever so easy  _ not  _ to. A brilliant plan!” They fluttered in a circle, eager to get on with it. “When shall we plant it?”

“All in due time, my friend,” Sul Uin soothed and continued to watch. “All in due time.”

* * *

Nerienne watched Granson idly prod the firewood and tried not to think about the beautiful way the golden glow highlighted his features. It had been a long day. With the threat of the sin eaters gone, Granson had turned his talents to hunting down monsters of the regular sort and, when circumstances permitted, he yet invited Nerienne to join him if she liked. Their current mark was Pauldia, the beast of legend, the accursed form of the younger Voeburtite princess. It’d returned yet again and was eating the pixies’ sheep. For all that they’d searched, however, they were no closer to finding it. They’d turned in for the day after sunset, making camp beneath one of the few trees amid fields and fields of unending flowers.

She wanted to make conversation--to draw yet more stories from Granson’s lips, learn a bit more of the man with whom she’d become so enamored during her time in Norvrandt. But in their mutual fatigue, the two of them had done little more than sit around the fire, waiting for sleep’s siren call to draw them into their bedrolls for the evening. Driven to do something with her anxious hands (for being around Granson was ever an anxious experience), she pulled her violin out of its case.

“Do you mind if I play a bit?” Nerienne asked. She stroked the smooth spruce surface of the instrument, her one familiar throughout all her travels.

Granson nodded his head and smiled a teasing smile. “At last, here’s the bard of legend. I’ve always wanted to hear you play. Please do.”

She’d yet to learn any Vrandtic music, though she longed to do so. She made a mental note to check with Moren when she next returned to the Crystarium to see if he might know where she could procure sheet music. Anything she might play for Granson would be new to his ears, and so she began to scratch one of her favorite tunes from Ishgard, a slow and mournful piece that reminded her of home. Her arm and fingers moved without thought, the song so familiar that her body had long since memorized every last motion required to play it beautifully as she could. Halfway through the piece she looked out and her eyes met Granson’s. He seemed transfixed, his full attention focused entirely on her and the music she played. The thought made her heart beat a bit more quickly. His warm ruby eyes were gentle in the way they followed her every motion.

Whatever it was that yet lingered between them, it carried the weight and certainty of an elegy. Too many times had she been on the verge of reaching out and touching his arm, of confessing, quietly, the way a single look from him seemed to render her breathless. Yet interruption after interruption, excuse after excuse kept her from doing so. Foremost among them was the simple truth that they lived in two different worlds. Each time she returned home, she risked one day coming back to Norvrandt to find that the passage of time had raced onwards without her, years lost in her absence. To give in to the gentle hope brewing between them was to invite yet more hurt for them both: something which they’d each experienced in unfair abundance. And so she abstained, though she was loath to do so.

When she finished, Granson smiled warmly and clapped. “Well played, sinner.”

She flushed despite herself, bowing her head in a show of gratitude. “It’s my favorite little piece of home.”

“The violin in a beautiful instrument,” Granson said. After a moment he added, more quietly, “Moreso when it’s you who’s playing it.”

Nerienne’s flush deepened further, and she rested her violin in her lap. What did these exchanges mean? Was Granson willing to risk being hurt where she was not? Or was this flirtation merely another facet of his personality? For all that she’d come to know him, the answer to this simple question yet eluded her. All she found was blind desire, smothered by fear and uncertainty.

A flash of movement out of the corner of Nerienne’s eye caught her attention, and she turned to look out at the field of flowers. Whatever had passed was gone now (a pixie, perhaps?), but her eyes zeroed in on a flower at the edge of their camp she hadn’t noticed before. It was blue, amid a sea of yellows, pinks, and oranges, and glowing faintly. It was beautiful. The faint glow reminded her of her journeys through the Sylphs’ territory on the Source, ethereal and whimsical. Its lush petals bowed out around a pale yellow center, long leaves coiling around its thick stem. An oddity, she thought, that she hadn’t noticed it before. As with all oddities in Il Mheg, she wondered if perhaps it might be a trick of the fae, but its placement was just natural enough that she could believe it might not be. In either case, she ignored it, and raised her violin to play another tune.

Halfway through her second song, the sweetest scent she’d ever smelled swirled past her on the breeze. So heavenly was it, delirious and sugary and warm, that she stopped mid-performance and simply inhaled, unable to believe her senses. Granson looked at her strangely from across the campfire, not seeming to have noticed it.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, eyebrows drawn together around his scar.

“That flower over there,” Nerienne pointed at the strange glowing bloom. “I don’t know how, but I think I can smell it from here.”

Granson stood up and made his way over to the flower carefully, squatting down to gently finger its silken petals. Nerienne followed him, leaving her violin sitting atop its case. As she drew closer, the scent became stronger, further confirming her suspicion. She was more certain than ever that this was some trick of the fae, but despite her best efforts, she couldn’t leave the flower be. Granson, too, seemed rapt with curiosity.

“It smells…” Granson murmured, lost in thought. She watched his chest expand as he inhaled, breathing out a bit unsteadily. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t remind me of anything in particular, it’s just--”

Nerienne inhaled deeply, despite a part of her mind cautioning her not to. 

“It’s heavenly,” she finished from him.

Granson nodded, and Nerienne watched his long, calloused fingers gently pinch one of the petals, rolling it between his fingertips. A spark of interest flared in her belly. She flushed at her own impulse. “You don’t think the pixies--”

Granson turned to look at her, and the moment his gaze met hers, his face seemed to flood with color. His eyes widened slightly and his mouth tightened, as though he was embarrassed. He stood up quickly and backed away from the flower.

“Strangeness in Il Mheg can almost always be attributed to the pixies,” Nerienne agreed. Her mind, though, was wandering over the junction of Granson’s neck and shoulder, where thick muscle corded beneath his skin. The insistent desire to bite down--to taste that part of him, to kiss his neck and cheek and forehead and lips--washed over her in a blinding wave. She swallowed thickly and forced herself to return to her seat, well away from the cursed bloom. “It’s probably best if we leave it alone.”

“Aye,” Granson agreed with a nod, and Nerienne didn’t miss the way he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from her. “Aye.”

Nerienne reached out to pick up her instrument again, but found her hand was shaking. Not violently, but gently: a bone-deep tremor that seemed to rush through every ilm of her body. The flower had done something to her. She was certain of it now. She looked up and found Granson standing beside the fire, staring down into the flames with his fists clenched. Another breeze carried the scent past them again, cool and light and utterly delicious, and Nerienne was unsurprised to see Granson now staring at her, a softness in his gaze. Her heart raced. Gods, he was beautiful. It’d been an age since passion had last swept through her so utterly, but despite the blazing need coursing through her veins, she knew she couldn’t let herself succumb.

Was it the bloom that had done this? Ensured the steady crumbling of her safeguards? Were the pixies forcing her hand? Anything was possible, and beyond the heat, she felt an insistent anxiety.

“I should try to sleep,” Granson said suddenly, and Nerienne couldn’t help but notice the complete flush across his cheeks. He’d gone red down to his shirt collar. “We best get an early start.”

“Of course,” Nerienne nodded.

“Good night,” Granson said, and each syllable came out sounding like a caress. He seemed to step towards her for an instant, unthinking, and then shrank back.

“Good night,” she replied.

A bit awkwardly, Granson crawled into his tent. Nerienne buried her face in her hands for a moment, her body and mind still fighting a brutal war.  _ A trick of the pixies _ , she reminded herself.  _ This was a trick of the pixies _ . She stowed her violin in its case and headed for her own tent, right next to Granson’s, crawling inside and beginning to strip off the less comfortable pieces of her clothing. She tried to ignore the fact that even her own hands against her body felt like ecstasy, but try as she might, her mind wandered to the idea that Granson’s, so much larger than her own, would feel even better. As she unbuckled her belt and stripped off her gloves she pictured his calloused fingertips sliding up the flat expanse of her stomach, ticklish and warm. He’d trace his hands over her curves reverently, savoring her shape, then cup her breasts in his hands. He’d pinch and tug at her nipples in a tease, until she demanded he undress her, and then he would obediently follow her orders, untying the laces at the sides of her top and stripping her bare before his fingers took a turn yet farther south and--

Nerienne buried her face in her hands again and groaned softly, unbearably aroused. What in the name of the Twelve had that flower done to her?

“Unbelievable!”

Nerienne wasn’t certain she’d truly heard the word, high-pitched and accented, but the wind seemed to carry it to her ears for an instant before it was gone, as though it’d never existed at all. If it had been said at all, it certainly wasn’t Granson’s voice that had spoken. Nerienne paused a moment and listened, but heard nothing else. She returned to tugging off her boots. Her well-used bedroll was soft beneath her, and she laid back against her pillow, listening to her own anxious breathing. She couldn’t rest. Not like this. And if the flower was having any measure of a similar effect on Granson, odds were he wasn’t, either. 

She imagined him alone in his tent, not six fulms away, lying on his back and shivering with desire. Was he thinking of her? Or, more likely, was he thinking of his lost beloved? Would he simply weather this, as she planned to? Or would he give in to temptation and quietly, ever-so-quietly, bring himself to release?

Nerienne’s whole body seemed to flush with the thought. She shouldn’t be picturing these things. It was inappropriate in the extreme and she couldn’t be entirely certain her affections were even wanted. She couldn’t possibly allow herself--

The flap of her tent peeled away, and she sat up on her elbows, peering down at the face that now stared inside at her. Granson, of course. He looked miserable and disheveled. He’d stripped off the bulk of his armor and now wore only a loose linen undershirt and trousers. His hair was mussed, as if he’d run his hands through it a dozen times in the few minutes they’d been apart.

“The pixies did something to us,” Granson said, “didn’t they?”

“I think so,” Nerienne confessed. She sat up fully, grieved by his stripped down appearance. She wanted nothing more than to tug his shirt off and run her hands over every ilm of his chest. She wanted to reach into his trousers and take his length in hand. She wanted to-- She shook her head, dispelling the thought with force. She groaned, “I can hardly think straight.”

An awkward silence settled between them and she tried her hardest not to look at the man kneeling in the doorway to her tent. If she looked, she would want. And wanting was becoming ever more dangerous.

“This wasn’t how I wanted to do this,” Granson said after a moment, and ran his hand through his hair again. He rubbed the back of his neck. Electric, Nerienne waited for him to speak, not daring to so much as move. “I want you,” he said, and relief, like an ocean, drowned her. Thank the Gods. “And not just because of whatever this pixie pollen is doing. I’ve wanted to tell you for awhile now, but it was complicated, so I kept putting it off and--”

“Gods, Granson, stop talking,” Nerienne said, convinced mere moments into his confession.

She all but dove forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, bringing their lips together in a desperate, unthinking kiss. He was quick to respond, wrapping his arms around her waist and pushing her further into the tent, onto her back against the pallet beneath them. He kissed her long and hard, teeth and tongue and lips all wildly seeking purchase, his chest rising and falling with the impossible weight of his need. Nerienne gave as good as she got, biting down on his lower lip before laving the teeth marks with her tongue, hands exploring his body and tugging at his shirt, pushing it up to his shoulders so she could trace her fingertips across the broad, muscular expanse of his back.

“I’ve never been so riled in all my life,” Granson admitted between kisses, breathing hot against the lobe of her ear before biting down and drawing a loud groan from her lips. On the breeze again, Nerienne though she heard a delighted snicker. If she did, she no longer cared. Elezen ears were impossibly sensitive. That he’d zoned in so easily…

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Nerienne confessed, mindlessly. “The pixies have nothing to do with it.” She kissed him, long and hard. “Granson…”

“Aye,” he agreed, and kissed her back. “Not a damn thing to do with it.”

Eagerly, Nerienne tugged his shirt up over his head and traced her hands across the muscles of his chest, fingers pinching his nipples in a teasing touch. A low noise in his throat and he dove down to kiss her neck, sucking a purpling mark against the flesh there that would doubtless be teased and asked after. Let them tease. She’d own up to it, proudly. She pressed a hand into the center of his chest and sat up, reaching down to begin unlacing the sides of her shirt. Granson was quick to help, untying the other side, and the garment was quickly cast to the floor at the opposite end of the tent.

His lips immediately travelled to her breasts, as if drawn by a magnet. He licked and sucked at each of her nipples in turn, provoking them into impossible hardness, firm and reddened against the gentle scrape of his teeth and lips. She moaned, unable to control herself, and grabbed a fistful of his hair. As he continued his ministrations, one hand crept down the plains of her stomach to the waistband of her skirt and tights, slipping inside without resistance. His fingers found the unaddressed wetness between her thighs immediately and he laughed.

“I see you were just as miserable in this desire as I was, sinner,” Granson murmured against her skin, his fingertips pressing insistently against her neglected clit and causing her to gasp. “Can’t say I’ve ever had a lover so eager as this.”

Nerienne could feel his length hard against her thigh and smiled. “I’m not the only one.”

Granson kissed her, then, while continuing to gently touch her, his fingers parting the slick folds between her legs and smoothing across her, each stroke electric. She laid back against the bedroll again. She wanted nothing more than for him to plunge his fingers--his cock--inside her, to fill her up and stretch her wide. To give her the release she so desperately required. The closer they got, the more maddening it became.

Nerienne kissed his lips and then his neck, biting gently at the shoulder muscle she’d admired so secretively at the fire less than a bell ago. As she did so Granson pulled his hand out of her tights and began to slide the remainder of her clothes over her hips and down her legs. She kicked them off not a moment later, leaving herself entirely bare and at the mercy of his touch. He pressed her thighs open more fully, then, exposing her heat to the chill of night, and plunged two fingers inside her with no resistance. He worked her clit with the pad of his thumb, pushing and dragging his fingers in and out of her, curling in a way that made her hips gyrate against his slick hand. She cried out, unable to focus. Though this was far from her first time, his ministrations felt heavenly in a way that rivaled even the finest tumbles she’d taken. He fingered her for what felt like an age, eyes roaming her naked body like it was the answer to his every need, until at last Nerienne could take it no longer and forced him back onto the pallet, unlacing the front of his tented breeches.

She tugged his pants off and cast them aside with the rest of their clothing. Normally, she’d take him into her mouth--draw it out, make it last--but the dizzying need spiraling between them had begun to peak. Granson’s face and chest were flushed, and he laid back, his cock standing stiff as a polearm between them. Nerienne wrapped her hand around it and gave him a few cursory strokes, drawing a moan from his lips as she traced her thumb through the generous slick of precum across the head.

“Is it alright if we do it like this?” Nerienne asked and straddled him. She scooted closer so that the wet heat of her core rested against his cock. She wanted to ride him. She wanted him to leave bruises on her hips from gripping her so tightly he could hardly stand it. She wanted to feel sore come morning. Her need had reached a fever pitch.

“I’d have it no other way,” Granson smirked.

Having obtained all the permission she needed, Nerienne grabbed his cock and gently pressed the head against her opening, sinking down onto him in one smooth motion--no hint of resistance--seating him inside her entirely. She could’ve wept at the sensation. The fullness of his cock was a blessing. He wriggled his hips just slightly, waiting for her to settle before he began to move, and even that slight motion caused her body to grow languid with pleasure. She rocked her hips once, twice, the slide of his cock inside her almost too much to bear, and then gradually the two of them settled into a rhythm.

Nerienne knew she wouldn’t last long. She’d been on the edge since the second Granson had stripped her naked. With his hands gripping her hips and her thighs burning with the effort of maintaining the pace of their lovemaking, she was already dizzy. She knew she’d tumble over the precipice in mere moments. But she tried her best to hold on. She rocked against him, increasingly harder, the stretch of him growing more and more delirious with each passing moment.

“N-Nery,” Granson stammered. His eyes were closed. He rocked his hips nigh frantically, driving into her desperately, lost to the pleasure she’d brought him.

She groaned once, and then again more loudly when his fingertips bit into the flesh of her thighs, overly-tight in just the way she’d wanted. She raised her body and let him drag nearly all the way out of her before slamming down again, repeating the motion over and over until she could bear it no longer, and she collapsed, suddenly, crying out, her body tightening again and again around the length of his cock, squeezing impossibly tight, her orgasm carrying her through wave after wave of unending pleasure. 

Granson, too, tumbled over the edge, squeezing her thighs so hard Nerienne had to rest her hands over his to soothe him, savoring the feel of his hot release filling her, messy and slick. She rolled her hips a time or two more, tracing her fingers over his, and when she’d become so overstimulated she could bear no more, she carefully climbed off of him and shrank down to lay on the pallet beside him. Her body was feverish and slick with the sweat of exertion. Her chest heaved. Having fucked him so mindlessly, without a thought for the sounds she was making or her appearance or anything other than a constant quest for sensation was entirely unlike her. But she didn’t regret it. The fog of need had cleared from her mind, and in its place there was only satisfaction, warm and languid like honey drizzled into a cup of tea.

“Thank you,” Nerienne said, and cuddled close to him, kissing his chest. The hair there tickled her lips.

“Thank yourself,” Granson said, and laughed as he stared blindly up at the roof of the tent. “That was--” he huffed. “I’ll be revisiting that one a few times more.” 

After a long moment he remembered himself and rolled onto his side. His fingers gently caressed where he’d gripped her thighs a bit too hard. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I was so caught up I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“I’m fine,” Nerienne promised, and kissed him carefully, resting her hand over his where it gently stroked her flesh. Mind no longer encumbered with lust, her thoughts returned to the many fears that’d kept her from reciprocating in the first place. As wonderful a tumble as it had been, things wouldn’t be simple moving forward. Her eyebrows unconsciously drew together.

“Hey,” Granson tipped her chin up and met her eyes. “You and me, we’ll figure it out, alright? One way or another.”

Nerienne searched his gaze, but found only patience and certainty. Her fears abated, if only slightly. She nodded. “Okay.”

* * *

A ways away, grinning from ear to ear, Sul Uin and Oul Sigun high-fived on a job well done.


End file.
